


Fire and Gasoline

by sunspearing



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 14:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4568676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunspearing/pseuds/sunspearing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that fighting is just one of the many things that keep marriages healthy and running, something that strengthens the trust and bond between two people wed in matrimony. Ushijima thinks these people that said this have never even thought of marrying Oikawa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire and Gasoline

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively, a Mr. and Mrs. Smith AU  
> I'm sorry
> 
> Happy birthday, Ushiwaka-chan!!!!!!

Ushijima doesn’t really know why he’s so goddamn angry instead of worried for his life, swerving the car he stole around the neighbourhood curb with a frustrated flick of his wrist. Maybe it comes with his husband--ex-husband?--bailing out on him and bugging him with a bomb after making that grand exit. Or maybe, the disappointment stems from the fact their marriage for five years has apparently been built on nothing but lies. Ushijima hadn’t been entirely honest, and he admits this is half his fault, but having a bounty over his head and finding out the hitman assigned to take him off the grid was the person he’s been sharing a bed for over half a decade, well shit.

He turns towards the driveway of the house--his and Oikawa’s, good Jesus the splitting of property would be disastrous if they both end up living after tonight--the same time Oikawa does, and their bumpers collide. Ushijima watches as Oikawa backs his silver Merc before ramming it back against Ushijima’s vehicle, pushing it back. Ushijima growls while he gets jostled, wrenching his door open the moment Oikawa’s car zoomed past his. 

With practised stealth, Ushijima makes his way towards the front door of their house, peering through the limited vantage offered by the windows and stained glass, on high alert for Oikawa’s shadow. He tries the doorknob and, when it doesn’t budge, curses while trying to rummage through his pockets for the keys. He makes his way to the back of their house to try the kitchen door, and even the basement’s, only to find them all locked.

“Fucking hell,” Ushijima hisses, stepping back onto the grass and looking back up at the quiet house. “Of all days he remembers to lock the doors.” Eyeing the painted white trellis along the wall, and the windowsill on the second floor adjacent to it, Ushijima sighs. 

Ignoring the fact that he’s stepping on Oikawa’s beloved flower bed and most likely damaging the vines climbing up the wood, Ushijima scales the wall and hoists himself up the windowsill. Peering through the dimly lit room inside and deciding the coast is clear, he uses his elbow to break the glass, reaching inside so he can unlock the window and push the frame up. Quietly making his way inside, Ushijima heads towards a secret compartment behind the painting Oikawa hates so much.

Taking the guns stashed inside and loading them up, screwing on mufflers and keeping extra mags in his pocket, Ushijima presses himself against the wall before checking the hallway for Oikawa. He hasn’t even taken more than five steps outside the room when he bumps into one of Oikawa’s many ornamental vases, causing it to come crashing to the ground.

There’s some two minutes of silence, and everything suddenly moves into a blur.

Ushijima runs for cover as he is suddenly pelted with bullets aimed at his direction, the shots piercing through the wall that is most likely separating him and Oikawa. Ushijima turns to shoot some bullets of his own once he gets a decent vantage point, spotting Oikawa still decked in his flattering silk suit with an M4 rifle in each hand, both directed at Ushijima.

Furniture gets destroyed and there’s multiple shards of ceramic, glass and porcelain raining around the room along with the bullets, the plaster of the walls and wood of the floors flying in the air each time missed shots ricochet off of them. At one point Oikawa starts throwing knives at Ushijima, and one goes whizzing past Ushijima’s ear he’s sure if it were aimed a few centimetres down he’d only have one hearing organ left. The bullet lodges itself in one of the expensive plant vases, and promptly makes it rain soil and shards of broken porcelain.

“Not the plants-- _Fuck_!” Ushijima shouts through the torrent of bullets, aiming a shot at the cabinet and causing it to wobble, falling towards Oikawa. He watches the other lunge away, narrowly missing getting pinned down under the heavy mahogany casing.

“My suit is Dior, Ushiwaka-chan! Don’t make me dirty it too much!” Oikawa trills back, chucking his gun at Ushijima’s head the moment it runs out of ammo. He watches Ushijima dodge it effortlessly. “I knew I shouldn’t have made it a habit to throw stuff at you when I’m angry.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have made it a habit to lie to me, too.” Ushijima takes a split second to sprint from one side of the living room to the other, effectively tackling Oikawa to the ground. The instant Oikawa regains his bearings he delivers a solid punch to Ushijima’s jaw, and Ushijima hears Oikawa’s knuckles pop before he feels the pain, but it shocks him all the same. Oikawa is definitely angry.

“Look who’s fucking talking,” Oikawa hisses, thrashing on the floor and trying to hit Ushijima on any area reachable. Ushijima knees him on the belly, and all the air gets forced out of his lungs at the immense pressure. Oikawa wheezes, “Fucking Christ!”

It’s a brutal, barbaric, but dangerously captivating game between both of them, their fighting almost transcending into dancing with the precise and meticulous way they deliver their offensive attacks. The other instantly going on defense and countering each other’s assaults. Where Ushijima decides to use his brute strength and power, Oikawa opts for his speed and agility, matching each and every one of Ushijima’s punches and kicks with his own.

Ushijima doesn’t know when his thoughts went from thinking Oikawa’s releasing five years’ worth of pent-up anger and frustration, to Oikawa’s the most perfect sparring partner Ushijima could ever ask for. Maybe he’d gotten a concussion already.

Eventually, they reach a standstill. Oikawa had managed to slip from Ushijima’s grasp and instantly made a grab for his gun, and the moment he’s straightened up, hand poised on the trigger, he’s already staring into the barrel of Ushijima’s own, the muffler gleaming shiny silver in the limited light of the wrecked living room. They’re both breathing hard as they stare at each other.

Ushijima watches a trickle of blood travel from underneath Oikawa’s damp fringe and down the side of his face--fuck, he looks beautiful. His eyes are bright and alive, shimmering with moisture and dewing his long eyelashes. His lips are red, barely cut unlike Ushijima’s, and they’re parted open as Oikawa struggles to pace his breathing. This is the face Ushijima has woken up to for five years, and seriously, what is he even doing standing here and pointing a gun at what could be the most exquisite face Ushijima has and will ever see. 

Seeing Oikawa’s nose scrunch up, that tiny x-shape forming in between his eyebrows where they crease, maybe Ushijima never really stood a chance.

“I can’t do it,” Ushijima says quietly, and his hold on the gun goes slack, slipping off from its angle pointed at Oikawa’s head. Oikawa’s eyes flash in surprise, and his unruly curls fall over them as he tries to step nearer Ushijima, lessening the distance between his gun and Ushijima’s forehead.

“Don’t fucking give up, Ushiwaka-chan, come on! Fight me!” Oikawa all but screams through his teeth, the tears building up in the waterline of his eyes. “Fucking fight me like your equal, Ushiwaka-chan, point your gun back at me.”

Ushijima looks down at the gun in his hand, and back up at Oikawa’s face. “You want it?” Ushijima holds the gun to Oikawa like a peace offering--or maybe as a last token of consolation. “It’s yours. You win, Tooru.”

One thing about Oikawa is that he rarely shows emotions on his face--it’s always a default expression of happiness that he slips on like a thin second skin that’s almost intimately in contact with his own person. Ushijima has spent so many years staring and trying to decipher this face and he’s only ever managed to catch slivers. But, at this moment, he’s privy to each and every emotion that flashes in Oikawa’s eyes and tenses his facial muscles. He goes from angry to sad to confused to downright _fiery_ Ushijima almost shivers.

Oikawa takes the gun from Ushijima’s hands and throws them wayward along with his own, freeing his hands so he can thread them through the short hairs at the back of Ushijima’s neck to pull him down with a kiss so passionate and hungry and ardent it pulls a guttural sound from deep within Ushijima, carnal and dark. Oikawa presses closer, like he’s trying to crush himself against Ushijima’s chest, and releases a broken whimper against Ushijima’s mouth the moment the other grasped at his hips. Ushijima’s hold is tight and almost bruising, fingers digging into the silk of his pants.

Ushijima's hands wander down, and he pulls a gasp from Oikawa when he grips his thighs and hitches them around his waist, hoisting Oikawa up and carrying him, only to press him up against the wall none too gently.

"Such a brute," Oikawa breathes against Ushijima's mouth, breathless from either the impact or the intense kisses Ushijima seems to keep robbing from him. He arches his back against the wall when Ushijima moves to bite at the angle of his jaw, tongue drawing Oikawa's earlobe into his mouth before sinking his teeth into the plush of it. 

Oikawa pushes himself closer to Ushijima and crowds him, making him step back from the wall and stumble around, and with sheer willpower Oikawa manages to manoeuvre them until it's Ushijima pinned against the plaster of their ruined home. Oikawa's hands wander, fingers drifting towards Ushijima's collar and pulling, making the buttons tear away from their fastens. 

"My favourite shirt, Tooru." Ushijima doesn't even sound upset, too preoccupied watching Oikawa reverently touch at his exposed skin, fingers traipsing across Ushijima's collarbones and the dip between it. Oikawa slides his hands inside Ushijima's shirt to grasp at his pectorals.

"I gave you this shirt," Oikawa muses, his legs tightening around Ushijima as the other squeezes his ass, groping at it through his pants. Ushijima is starting to walk towards the dining room, making to sit Oikawa down on the wooden table. "And you still don't wear an undershirt with your button-downs."

Ushijima settles back in the bracket of Oikawa's legs and kisses him, allowing Oikawa to push the shirt completely off his body before moving to work at Ushijima's belt. "You've seen this body in lesser states of undress for five years, I'm pretty sure you've gotten used to it."

Ushijima makes quick work of Oikawa's pants, pulling them down his legs along with his underwear so fast there's a distinct tearing sound punctuating the air. Oikawa gasps the moment the cool air prickles at his exposed skin, annoyance at getting his suit pants ruined fading away at the sight of Ushijima sinking down to his knees, and he couldn't do anything but whisper, "Six. Six years, Ushiwaka-chan."

"Doesn't matter," Ushijima mutters, and Oikawa feels the words against his skin more than hears them. Ushijima has wasted no time in pushing Oikawa's legs up and over his shoulders, leaning down to cover his mouth over Oikawa's entrance.

The heels of Oikawa's feet dig into Ushijima's shoulder blades almost painfully, his hands instantly grappling at the surface of the table to have something to hold onto, a scream ripping from his throat. All these delicious reactions, just from Ushijima dragging his tongue around, over and teasingly inside Oikawa, passing over his hole and wetting it with saliva. He moves closer, tongue rolling harder against the rippled skin, his nose pressing insistently on the thin, sensitive stretch of flesh between Oikawa’s entrance and balls. Ushijima stiffens his tongue to a point then pushes in, feeling the molten velvet of Oikawa's core warming his mouth. 

“U-Ushiwak--” Oikawa whimpers, fingers clumsily running over Ushijima’s forehead only to thread through his dark hair, tugging at them so hard his scalp stings. He tightens his thighs around Ushijima’s head, and it’s like it prompts him to go faster, tonguing him open. Oikawa feels like he’s been doused in gasoline and lit on fire, wet and hot and dirty and, God, Ushijima pulls away to breathe against his spit-slick entrance.

A sob catches in Oikawa’s throat when he looks down and meets Ushijima’s eyes from between his legs, dark and promising, the passion in them almost animalistic. Oikawa feels a whole body shiver ripple through him, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes that curl against the pebbles of Ushijima’s spine. He’s sure Ushijima felt it too, against his skin, his fingers, his mouth, his tongue, and it’s so close and it’s too much--

Ushijima licks a hot stripe along the cleft of Oikawa’s ass before fully pulling away. Oikawa feels his breath stutter before crashing down his chest, feeling his back come in contact with the table’s surface as he tries to get air back in his lungs. He opens a bleary eye to watch Ushijima step back from his position in between Oikawa’s legs and prop them on the edge of the table. He’s about to reach out to pull him back in when Ushijima presses a soft kiss to his knee and saying, “Stay here.”

As if Oikawa had any other choice (he probably couldn’t stand up without his knees buckling what with how good Ushijima had just tongue-fucked and licked him open _goddamn_ ), he lays and waits, catching his breath and trying to calm his heart back to its regular beating. 

When Ushijima comes back he has a bottle of lube in one hand, the other holding up a condom packet to his mouth so he can tear open the foil with his teeth. He’s already rolling the rubber down his length by the time he stops in front of Oikawa, gaze not leaving his face even once. Oikawa is looking back at him, eyes saying _I hate you_ and _I love you_ at the same time, and Ushijima is almost taken back to the moment they first met, the time he knew he was fucking done for.

Ushijima makes quick work of opening Oikawa with his fingers, massaging and scissoring him, hitting all the right spots he’s become accustomed to over the years, and watching Oikawa getting worked up and writhing, sweat making his silk shirt cling to his torso and rendering it translucent. Ushijima hooks Oikawa’s leg on the crook of his elbow, freeing one of his hands so he can reach up to flick at a dusky nipple.

“N-now,” Oikawa stutters, hands darting up to grasp at Ushijima’s arms to pull him close. He cranes his head up, mouth red and wet as he gasps, “Take me now, Ushiwaka-chan, _please._ ”

Ushijima moves and kisses Oikawa on the lips, tonguing his way into the other’s mouth. Ushijima’s fingers continue their ministrations, and it’s only when Oikawa grunts and nudges Ushijima with his foot against the other’s tailbone that he stops. There’s only a few seconds of feeling numbingly empty before it’s replaced with the sensation of being torn apart in the most deliciously painful way possible. Oikawa’s back lifts off the table in a perfect arc of pleasure, and Ushijima takes this opportunity to wrap an arm under and around Oikawa, pulling him close and burying his face in the crook of his neck. Ushijima groans as he sinks in deeper, enveloped in _heatheatheat_ and God, if he’s going to die after this, it would be the perfect way to go.

Just as Oikawa ordered him to, Ushijima takes him, and he takes hard and deep--to own, to mark, to make Oikawa remember that Ushijima’s the only one that can do this to him, reduce him to a beautiful wrecked mess and Ushijima’s the only one that can help him put himself back together.

When Oikawa climaxes, Ushijima’s name comes out of his name more as a sob than anything, voice broken and hoarse as they lilt, “ _Wakatoshi._ ”

Ushijima watches Oikawa’s face, the red hue bright on the rims of his tear-stained eyes, his flushed cheeks, and his sweet, kiss-swollen mouth. He comes to this image, white-hot and overwhelming, and when he closes his eyes it’s still there branded in the back of his eyelids, making his pleasure crest as he rides out the high.

Oikawa is limply holding onto him by the time Ushijima calms down, and Ushijima slowly brings down Oikawa’s legs from where one was propped over his shoulder, the other around his waist. Ushijima’s about to pull out when Oikawa reaches up to hug him, slumping on him more than anything, but his grip is tangible all the same.

“I was given 48 hours to kill you,” Oikawa says quietly, almost tiredly. Ushijima pushes away the damp curls matted to Oikawa’s forehead. “I’ve decided it’s not worth it.” He presses his cheek against Ushijima’s warm chest, and sighs.

With too little things said, and a lot of happenings done, Ushijima finds himself pulling Oikawa closer, wordlessly agreeing with him. They did vow to be together ‘til death do they part, after all.


End file.
